Bring your ear plugs to block out the braying Sloanes, and you’ll love this
Battersea bistro.

Some perfectly charming restaurants have a problem with their clientele, and some have a problem with their acoustics, but one that has a problem with both is hard to find the charm in.

I've not seen a more Sloane-packed venture than Soif since the Parson's Green/Putney posh arms race of the 1980s. Someone on the table behind us screamed, 'Well I never!' whenever one of her friends arrived, as if they were freedom fighters, separated by decades, hardened by loss, stumbling by pure chance into the same spider hole in Kabul. 'Grating' doesn't even begin to cover it.

But the décor had something to answer for as well; apparently unable to choose between French bistro simplicity and modern minimalism, it had opted for both. All the edges were harsh and new, the floor was a cheap, clacky terracotta (where we were sitting), the furniture wooden, functional, untroubled by cushioning, and everything that could be, was very close together.

My friend D ordered the padrón peppers (£3.50), and we had the charcuterie selection to share (£12.50). The menu is a bit random; you can't work out whether it's trying to be French, Spanish, Scandinavian in the fringes or modern British.

I'm not talking about new combinations within each dish; that would count as 'fusion'. It wasn't the dishes themselves that were unusual – just the fact that they had nothing in common. It suggested a kitchen that was trying to crowd-please rather than express itself.

The charcuterie consisted of rillettes, a very coarse pâté and some great fennel salami. 'Death, death and death,' said D, gleefully. This doesn't in itself guarantee deliciousness, but here it vouchsafed enough. The salami was the best bit, which sounds rather damning, since someone else, way off site, must have made it.

But the rest was good, too, especially the pâté, which was rough-hewn and characterful. The rillettes was pleasant, if a bit subtle. Padrón peppers only work for me dressed with a really good olive oil; they're bitter, so you need some luxury as a counterbalance. I thought these tasted like a bit of a chore.

Everything looked radically upwards when the mains arrived. I had veal kidneys with chubby, explosively lovely lardons, on some lush and garlicky spinach (£17). The kidneys were cooked to the perfection of fractions of a second; from their rosy centre to their sizzled brown exterior, the flavour radiated outwards, very mild at the middle, bolder and more offally at the edge. The spinach was slick with butter and lovely. It took some digesting, but it was worth it.

D had the hake with a very classic French medley, pebbly puy lentils flecked with herbs and vegetables at their daintiest (£16). She thought the hake was a bit overdone, but not by much; it still flaked very prettily and tasted of itself, smooth and sweetish.

It was good, although I have no trouble imagining my mum making this for what a Tory would call a 'kitchen supper'. The kidneys made a much better fist of being the kind of thing you go to a restaurant for: ingredients you don't often find, cooked in ways that you might mess up, served with a panache you might not be able to muster.

D refused pudding, and I had the blancmange (£6.50), which was incomparable: exactly the right marriage of vanilla and creaminess, a perfect weight, as light but solid as a duck-down duvet.

So by now this experience should have been entirely redeemed, since the food only ever had the smallest, least consequential things wrong, and often had nothing wrong at all and was lovely. If I'm not in love with the place, it's because of its functional interior. But the food is good, which is what the whole thing's meant to be about.

Book ahead to bag a table at this friendly restaurant, where the neighbours drop by with foraged wild garlic to go in the daily risotto. Sample the chef's home-made pancetta with fillet of pork and ham-hock croquettes (£16.95)

Kitchen 762 Ecclesall Road, Sheffield (0114 267 1351)

Tipped for its great-value midweek suppers (just £15 for three courses), this small, no-fuss bistro is the place to go for a beautifully presented roast fillet of cod with parmesan mash and pea purée, followed by crème brûlée with roasted plums.

The Side Door29a Hope Street, Liverpool (0151 707 7888)

This big Georgian townhouse, with its huge windows, scrubbed floorboards and reclaimed furniture, is a popular spot for a club sandwich at lunch (£6.75), and roast poussin with purple broccoli and parmentier potatoes in the evening (£13.95)